He Stood Me Up, so I Married His Brother novel · Chapter 8 of 24

Chapter 8: The Hearing

The hearing room was on the third floor, two floors above the marriage counter.

It was smaller than I expected. Wood paneling, a flag, a judge's bench, two tables, three rows of chairs.

The chairs were full.

Tammy and the whole crew sat in the second row in clean shirts. The new kid had combed his hair.

The white-haired widow from Jones Street sat at the end with her pocketbook in her lap. She'd asked Thatcher at breakfast what time to be there.

Lorene sat in the front row on the other side, in pearls.

Crosby sat at the petitioner's table with a lawyer.

He didn't look at me.

The judge was a gray-haired woman with half-glasses and no patience.

"Mr. Ashwood," she said to Crosby. "You allege the marriage is a sham, and that a deputy clerk of this court used his position to obtain it."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Call your witness."

Ivey walked up in a soft blue dress, no jewelry, no phone. I'd never seen her without the phone.

She swore to tell the truth.

"I was in the waiting room that day," she said. "I got sick. Crosby took me to get help."

She looked at me with big sorry eyes.

"Before we left, Neely said she'd marry anybody. She said it out loud. 'I'll marry anybody, today.' Then she marched up to the counter."

"Did you hear Mr. Thatcher Ashwood say anything?"

"He didn't have to. He'd been waiting for a chance to hurt our family for three years."

Behind me, Tammy said, "Oh, come on," loud enough to get a look from the judge.

"Ms. Dawes," the judge said. "You were sick enough to leave the building."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you were at a diner on Broughton Street twelve minutes later." The judge held up a printout. "With pancakes."

Ivey's mouth opened and closed.

"I felt better," she said.

"Clearly."

Somebody in the second row snorted. I was pretty sure it was the widow.

Then it was Thatcher's turn.

He stood up in his one suit. Navy, a little tight across the shoulders.

He didn't have a lawyer. He'd said he didn't need one to tell the truth.

"Mr. Ashwood," the judge said. "Did you use your office to marry your brother's fiancée?"

"I took off my badge first," he said. "Another clerk did the ceremony. It's on the record."

"That's the procedure. I'm asking why."

He was quiet for a moment.

The whole room waited.

"I'd called her number nineteen times," he said. "Every time, I watched her stand up in a white dress, and every time, I watched him leave."

He didn't look at Crosby. He looked at the judge.

"After about the tenth time, I'd have done anything to see her walk out of here happy. I didn't think it would ever be with me."

My throat closed.

"She asked me an honest question at that counter. I gave her an honest answer. I said yes because I wanted to."

"Not to hurt your brother?"

"My brother left his wife-to-be at a counter twenty-seven times, Your Honor," he said quietly. "He didn't need my help to get hurt."

Crosby's head came up.

The judge looked at me.

"Mrs. Ashwood. Do you live with your husband?"

It was the first time anyone had called me that.

"Yes, ma'am. Since last Tuesday. Jones Street."

"Do you intend to stay married to him?"

I looked at Thatcher.

"Yes," I said. "I do."

The judge took off her half-glasses.

"Complaint dismissed," she said. "And Mr. Crosby Ashwood, the next time you'd like to file in my court, I suggest you show up for it."

The crew stood up and clapped.

The judge banged the gavel at them, but she was almost smiling.

Lorene left without a word. Ivey ran after her.

Crosby stayed at his table, staring at the papers in front of him.

Then he stood and walked out.

That night the carriage house was quiet.

The crew had taken us to a barbecue joint on the east side and toasted us with sweet tea and beer.

Tammy had hugged Thatcher. Hard. In front of everybody.

"You're all right," she'd said into his shoulder. "Don't make me take it back."

Now it was just us.

He was standing by the stove in his suit pants and his white shirt, open at the collar. He was making coffee out of habit.

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